


Fault Line

by MadcapRomantic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sex, Feels, Fingering, Hand Jobs, Love, M/M, Mates, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Top Derek Hale, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Write ALL the tropes!, minor abuse of the Polish language, no one died and everything is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadcapRomantic/pseuds/MadcapRomantic
Summary: When Derek comes to, his head hurts.No, hurts is the wrong word. It's not strong enough. His head feels like it's being split in two, down the middle. His ears are ringing, and his vision is blurred.But despite it all, strong and crisp and clear, is the underlying scent of home, pack, and mate.





	1. Fracture

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how I keep trying to write smut, and then a story happens? Well, I did it again. I'd apologize, but let's not pretend you're not here for that exact reason.
> 
> On today's bingo card, please mark off the following; amnesia, mates, flirting, comic book references, serious feels, angst, dirty talk, no one died and everything is fine, minor abuse of the Polish language, and coming untouched.
> 
> If you'd like, check me out on tumblr as madcapromantic, or my exclusive Sterek blog as towhomthewolfkingbows.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated, and spur me on to write more garbage.

When Derek comes to, his head hurts.

No, hurts is the wrong word. It's not strong enough. His head feels like it's being split in two, down the middle. His ears are ringing, and his vision is blurred.

But despite it all, strong and crisp and clear, is the underlying scent of  _ home, pack, mate. _

Through blurry vision, he scans the room. It's somewhere he's never been, but based off the subtle scents of pine and petrichor seeping in from the crack in the window, he knows he's still in Beacon Hills.

A soft noise pulls his attention toward the source, and Derek turns his head, his hearing slowly returning. When he sees the sleeping figure slumped over on the chair next to his bed, for just a split second he's on edge; why is there a human asleep next to him? But then the figure twists, fidgets, opens his eyes, and Derek sucks in a gasp.

The young man opens his honey-colored eyes, blinking gently like a doe. He scrubs at his face, itching the side of a nose that is ever so delicately turned up at the end. His eyes slowly focus and he blinks up at Derek, then slowly lets a genuine smile creep over his face. “Good to see you awake, big bad.”

And, oh, God, Derek is lost. This creature, this  _ beautiful creature _ is his  _ mate. _ And what's more, he already smells like Derek.

No force on earth could stop his next action; Derek reaches out, cups the boy's face in his hands, and brings their lips together. Every part of Derek is suddenly on fire and drowning at the same time. He can't breathe, can’t get enough of his mate's heady scent into his lungs, though he tries.

But something is wrong; his mate isn't kissing him back.

Derek pulls away, hands still cupping his boy’s face. But the look his mate wears is unsettling; he's  _ surprised _ .

“I'm, uh, I'm happy to see you too, dude,” his mate stammers.

Derek leans in again, touches their noses together. The boy smells  _ so wonderful _ , and his heartbeat is music to Derek's ears. He somehow doesn't know this boy, but he loves him already. It should be strange, the whole  _ ordeal _ seems strange, but Derek doesn't care because he's found his  _ mate. _

“You took a pretty nasty spell to the head. You, uh, you feeling alright?”

Derek kisses the boy's closed eyes, the thin skin of his eyelids fluttering under the touch of Derek's lips. “I'm alright, now.  _ I found you.” _

He kisses the boy again, who stiffens under his hands and pulls away.

Derek whines, high and tight, at the loss.

“Found me? Dude, what are you talking about?”

Derek can't get enough of the boy's taste, so he presses in and steals another kiss, this one chaste and gentle. “I found you,  _ I found my mate.” _

“WHOA!” The boy twists out of Derek's grasp, standing up and taking a step back. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Derek hears thundering footsteps echoing outside the room and springs into action. He jumps into the space between his mate and the door as it swings open. Fangs and claws are out, and Derek snarls at the intruder.

“What the hell, Derek? It's just me!”

Derek snarls again. This strange boy in front of him somehow knows him, but ever stranger than that is the fact that he's a wolf, who  _ also _ smells like him.

“Scott, dude! He woke up and just, like, kissed me! I don't know what's going on, but-”

Three more wolves crowd into the doorway and Derek weighs his options. Four against one is hardly a fair fight, but the other wolves are hardly older than  _ pups _ , and Derek is confident he could take them. The issue, however, is his mate's safety.

So, Derek does what he thinks is the best course of action; he throws his mate over his shoulder and jumps out the window.

“Holy mother of God!” His mate shrieks as Derek soars through the air, falling from the second story window. He lands with grace, but takes off into the woods the moment his feet hit the ground.

“Derek, you asshole, put me down and stop running this  _ instant _ !”

Though it pains him, he ignores his mate's wishes and continues through the dense forest at break-neck speed; he  _ has _ to get his mate to safety.

His mate lands a well-aimed elbow to the back of his head, which causes Derek's pace to falter.

“Put me down, sourwolf!”

Much to his dismay, his mate sounds genuinely angry, so Derek slows to a stop and gently leans down to right his mate.

His mate is  _ angry _ . He takes a few steps back and scrubs his fingers through his hair. “ _ What the hell,  _ Derek?”

Derek whines. “I had to get you to safety. I don't know those wolves, they could be-”

“Hold up,  _ hold up. _ You don't know those wolves? Dude, they are  _ your pack.  _ You turned three of them, for Christ's sake!”

Something icy grips at the base of Derek's spine. “What?”

His mate looks at him like he's crazy. “Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. You turned them. They’re your pack.”

Derek blinks in confusion. “I already belong to a pack; why would I turn them?”

The boy stills. “Already belong- what are you- oh fuck. Okay. Okay. Derek. This question is going to sound crazy, but I need you to answer me. I need you to be honest. What year is it?”

Derek tries to concentrate, tries to come up with an answer, but can’t make his lips move to form words, can’t think of the last thing he saw on TV or the last meal he ate. He shakes his head, trying to blink away the stars that suddenly sprout in his vision.

The boy flails for a moment, then begins patting himself down. He finds what he's looking for, his phone, and with shaking fingers navigates his way through the screen. “Scott?”

Derek growls. Scott was the strange wolf back at the strange house. Derek doesn't like him.

“Stiles? Oh, thank God. What the hell is going on?”

“The witch put some kind of regression spell on Derek. She locked up his memories or something.”

“Where are you?”

His mate,  _ Stiles _ , looks around. “I don't know, man. It’s dark and I don't have werewolf eyes. In the forest?”

“Hang up and yell; we'll hear you.”

Stiles slides his fingers over the screen -  _ God, his fingers _ \- then uses them to cup his mouth. “Scott! I'm over-”

Derek pounces on his mate, covering his mouth this his hand. “I told you I don't know those wolves and -  _ are you licking my hand?”  _ Derek scowls, but pulls his hand free of the boy's pink lips.

“I can't just push you  _ off; _ puny human up in here! I had to think quick.”

Derek growls, leans forward, and finds he likes the way his mate's heartbeat kicks into overdrive when he cages him in. “They can't have you; you're  _ mine. _ ”

Stiles presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Oh my God, this is seriously not happening.”

Derek reels back. Does his mate try not feel the same way? His mother had told him he would  _ know _ when he found his mate, that it would be love at first sight for them both, overwhelming and all encompassing. Derek  _ knew _ the boy beneath him with the moles dotted like stars on his skin was his mate. So why did his mate not feel the same?

The boy sighed. “Derek,” he begins, his voice taking on an air of calmness his thundering heartbeat betrayed. “Please get off of me.”

Reluctantly, Derek eases up and away from Stiles, but stays within close range. When the boy sits up, Derek offers his hand to help him stand. After a moment of hesitation, Stiles accepts the offer and Derek aids him in getting to his feet.

“I know this is all sounding really crazy right now, but you have to trust me. The other werewolves are your friends - our friends - and they aren’t going to hurt us.”

Derek opens his mouth to argue, but Stiles lets out a weary sigh, and the words dies in his mouth.

“Please trust me, Derek. Please.”

Grinding his teeth together do he doesn’t snarl, Derek nods. If it’s what his mate truly wants, Derek will listen.

The others show up shortly, one right after the other, and Derek has a hard time controlling his wolf who wants nothing more than to put himself between these strangers that somehow smell like him and his mate. But Stiles’ heartbeat was steady when he said the others weren’t there to hurt him, so Derek reigns in the beast.

“So what’s the last thing you remember?” The girl, Erica, asks.

Derek blinks. He tries to think on it, but his ears start to ring. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the sound, but it gets him nowhere.

Boyd, the tall one, eyes him carefully. Derek doesn’t like it.

“Let’s just all go back to the house and call Deaton, alright?”

Derek nods. Surely his emissary knows what’s going on.

They begin back the way they came, Derek taking care to make sure his pace is evenly matches with Stiles’, making sure to alert him when there’s a downed branch or a portion of a tree thats been uprooted.

Stiles laughs after a while. “Usually you just let me stumble around the dark, dude. I like this helpful version of you.”

Derek doesn’t know if he should growl or preen.

If it wasn’t dark and Derek didn’t know better, he’d say the house is in the same location in the forest as the one he lives in, but it must be his nose playing tricks on him. The trees are a little taller, for one thing, and cleared out a bit further from the actual house itself on the property line.

Deaton meets them as they near the house, but something is incredibly wrong; the man looks older. Not just a few years, either; Deaton looks like a good decade has past since Derek last saw him.

There’s no introduction or greeting; they all simply herd themselves into the house.

A young woman with flaming red hair gracefully comes down the stairs as one of the other wolves shuts the front door to the house. “I’ve been  _ trying  _ to clean glass out of the carpet for the better part of a half an hour; someone better have a damn good explanation as to what’s going on. I helped ward this house myself - nothing should have been able to get in.”

“That spell the witch hit Derek with somehow gave him some weird retrograde amnesia and he threw me over his shoulder like a caveman and jumped out the window when he didn’t recognize anyone else.”

“But he recognized you?” The redhead asked, curtly.

“Uh, also the spell made him think I’m his mate?”

The young woman’s eyebrows rise, but Derek doesn’t like the look on her; it’s far too devious.

“I don’t  _ think _ you’re my mate;  _ I know. _ ” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “Deaton, if you can just call my mom-”

Deaton holds up his hand for Derek to still, which he does. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Derek. Spells like this are tricky. If you’re introduced to too much information at once, who knows what the spell might do or how it might backfire. Let me guess, your head hurts when you try to think about things regarding your life and your home.”

Derek nods, not liking the stone that has seemingly settled in the pit of his stomach.

Deaton looks around the room, his visage suddenly stony. “Until I can do a little more research about this particular spell, everyone needs to be careful about what they say around Derek. Start slow. Introduce him to things that are new, but not a particularly large part of his personal life; minor news stories, even movies and music.”

Derek does  _ not _ like the way the air in the room suddenly feels less like air and more like pea soup. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong, but Derek can’t put his finger on what, exactly, and now knows that no one in the room is going to outright tell him.

Scott nods as Deaton finishes up his somewhat vague instructions and shuts the door as the man leaves.

The tension in the room increases.

“How about we all go to bed and worry about this in the morning?”

Stiles yawns as he nods in agreement.

Derek fidgets, but worrying will get nothing done, so he nods as well.

“The window in your room is broken, and I haven’t had a chance to finish vacuuming in there,” the redhead informs him. “Stiles, take Derek to the guest room, would you?”

Stiles makes a ‘follow me’ motion with his head, and Derek has to bite his tongue to keep from storming over to him and licking that obscene expanse the boy calls a neck. He runs with wolves; doesn’t he know the dangers of baring his neck?

It takes great effort, but he remains silent as they all trudge up the stairs.

Just like he’d been instructed by the girl, Stiles shows Derek to the guest room. It’s a sparsely decorated room, and smells a little like every other wolf in the house. Derek does  _ not _ like it, but before he can voice his distaste, Stiles is already down the hall and shutting the door to his own room.

The wolf with the floppy curls pokes his head into the room with a bundle of clothing that is simply saturated in Derek’s scent. “Figured you’d want to change,” he says, like he’d known what Derek was thinking before Derek even thought of it himself.

Derek lies awake, staring at the ceiling, for what feels like hours. No matter what he does, he cannot get comfortable. Part of if, he’s sure, is the eerie silence of the house; despite an entire pack taking up residence on a single floor, Derek can’t detect a single heartbeat, which means that each of the rooms have been soundproofed. Normally, Derek would find such a blessing - bodies can be  _ so loud, _ even in sleep - but now, Derek can’t stand it. He can’t hear Stiles’ heartbeat, and it’s put him on edge.

If he can’t hear anyone else, however, he knows that there’s really no way for them to hear him, so he creeps down the hallway to the door that smells overwhelmingly like Stiles, and sits down with his back against it, reveling in the heady scent of his mate. Stiles smells like cinnamon, like clean laundry that’s dried in the sun, of petrichor and the forest and  _ home. _ Derek’s wolf wants to howl, wants to bust down the door and push his mate into the softness of his mattress until all he knows is the sound of Derek’s breath in his ear, the feeling of Derek in him, until he forgets everything but the feeling of Derek’s skin on his own.

The door swings open and Derek topples backward, landing with a thud flat against the carpet.

Above him, Stiles blinks sleepily. “Oh my God, this is my life.” He steps over Derek’s prone form and down the hall, shutting the door of the bathroom behind him.

Derek shuffles to his feet, thoroughly embarrassed. He spends a moment debating what to do - should he go back to the other room? Should he apologize to Stiles? - but doesn’t get the chance to do  _ anything  _ before Stiles is there, standing in the threshold of his own bedroom. He blinks up at Derek, then rubs at his nose with those long, delicate fingers of his.

“If I shut the door, are you going to just sleep against it all night?”

Derek’s cheeks heat.

Stiles sighs, then takes a few steps backwards. “Shut the door behind you, dummy.”

There are fireworks going off in Derek’s chest. If he knew how, he’d do a cartwheel. For Stiles’ sake, however, he manages to simply smile as he does as instructed.

But as he watches Stiles climb into bed, his courage falters. The boy suddenly smells like nerves and anxiety, and it makes Derek’s heart sink. How can he assure his mate he only wants the best for him when his mate wasn’t even aware he was his mate in the first place?

Derek climbs into bed, but gives Stiles a good bubble of personal space. It’s hard, considering how concentrated Stiles’ scent is in the sheets and comforter, but Derek perseveres.

Until hardly five minutes pass and Stiles heaves a frustrated sigh. “I can hear the wheels spinning in there, big guy. Is it going to be like this all night?”

“Why do you smell like me, but aren’t mine?” Oh, god, did Derek just blurt that out?

Stiles is quiet a moment. “I don’t know what you want me to say, man. I’m part of the pack; surely I smell like everyone?”

“You’re part of the pack, this pack,  _ my pack, _ but you’re not a wolf. Why?”

“I’m not much, but I like me the way I am.”

“I’d like you any way you are.”

That makes Stiles chuckle. “That witch really knocked you a good one, didn’t she?”

Derek doesn’t reply.

“The real you isn’t this nice.”

“I  _ am _ the real me,” Derek all but snarls.

His mate, the brave boy, doesn’t even flinch. “The you I know, then. The you I’ve known for years isn’t like this.”

Derek reaches out and gently takes Stiles’ hand. “The me you know is an idiot.”

Stiles smiles like Derek’s said some kind of joke, but doesn’t say anything else.

When Derek wakes up, his arm are around his boy’s middle, his lips pressing kisses to the back of Stiles’ neck, his hips pressing his hard-on into the gap between his mate’s ass cheeks.

Derek freezes.

“Oh, thank god, you’re awake,” Stiles breathes, his scent heavy with anxiety and arousal. “Can you, um, can you get off, please?”

Derek does, but bites his tongue so hard it bleeds to keep from crying out at the loss of feeling his mate in the span of his arms.

Stiles is off the bed and down the hall so fast Derek wonders if he isn’t a wolf, what kind of supernatural blood might actually run through his veins. But the door to the bathroom slamming shut pulls his attention, and shame suddenly washes over him. He feels like such an asshole. He scrubs his face with his hands and growls at himself.

He leaves Stiles’ room and finds the one that supposedly his own. He is careful to avoid the area in front of the broken window, and digs through a few dresser drawers before he finally finds some clothing that smells enough like him. He changes quickly, but pauses before he leaves. The room is sparsely decorated, but here and there are little trinkets that make the room seem more lived in. On top of the dresser there are a few sea shells, a handful of old postcards, and a few odds and ends, like the keys to a car and a handful of change. Derek turns around and goes about surveying the rest of the room. On top of the bedside table, there is a small dish with junk resting inside; two thumb tacks, a button, a safety pin, a nail file, and the stub of a movie ticket. Next to the dish is a hardcover book, a great beast of a thing that’s nearly three inches thick with a bookmark sticking out two-thirds of the way through.

Derek opens the top drawer of the bedside table. Inside are a few pairs of socks and several pairs of underwear, but that's not what peaks his interest; he can see a piece of paper against the far wall of the drawer, the corner still k up ever so slightly. He reaches into the door and feels around, surprised to find several pieces of paper. When he pulls his hand from the drawer, he realizes the paper scraps are all  _ photographs. _ The first is an old one, a picture he remembers well of he and his family. He's eight, maybe nine, and everyone in the photo is smiling. The next is an old picture of his parents on their wedding day. The last is one of his pack - this new one he's apparently part of - along with a few faces Derek doesn't recognize. But what draws his eyes is not the way everyone in the picture is smiling and laughing. It's the way Stiles is looking at Derek, like he's  _ in love with him, _ and doesn't that just make Derek's heart  _ stop. _

Derek slips the photos back into the drawer. He's formulating a plan in his mind. He wants Stiles, but more than that he wants Stiles  _ to want him. _ His forgotten memories be damned; he has his mate just beyond the grip of his fingertips. What lies beyond that is a little later on.

Derek descends the stairs and scents his way to the kitchen. It takes him a few moments to become acquainted with everything, but once he gets his bearings he sets to work. He cooks. He cooks up a storm. He cooks a mountain of eggs and bacon, French toast and sausage links. He even makes a batch of cinnamon rolls.

Eventually, the rest of the house makes their way down into the kitchen. Several of them express their surprise at Derek's preparation of the massive amount of food, but they all clam up when they take their first bites.

Stiles is the last to come down. There is a flush coloring high on his cheekbones, and he smells a little sour with nerves, but he meets Derek's gaze after he surveys the entire room.

“Smells great,” he says, picking up a plate off the counter.  
  
Derek smiles, but inside he's positively beaming.


	2. Crack

He learns their names. Re-learns. it's not really easy for anyone, introducing themselves like they've never met Derek, like they don't already live in his house. 

Lydia is the redhead with a devious smile. She's a banshee, and she's sharp as a tack with wit to match. Her nails are painted and polished a stunning red, and Derek doesn't doubt for one minute she wouldn't hesitate to scratch someone's eyes out with them.

Boyd is tall and quiet. That's about all Derek gets from him, other than his first name and a threat of a charlie horse should it ever be uttered aloud.

Isaac is the one with the floppy curls. He's a little quiet, but Derek suspects it's due more to an innate shyness than a strong-man persona. He reminds Derek the most of a puppy.

Scott smells like Stiles, and Derek suspects that's why he doesn't like him. It's not like Scott is rude or anything of the sort. The kid is downright pleasant. But Derek can smell Scott on his mate and vice versa, and it makes his throat dry and sticky.

Scott takes Boyd and Isaac on a run to the hardware store, after they measure the busted window in Derek's room. They don't offer to take Derek, and he doesn't ask. Lydia says she's picking up another of their pack, Allison, from the airport, and hurriedly leaves after the boys.

Derek and Stiles are alone. Derek knows it's going to be awkward between them, but apparently social norms don't always have power over Stiles, and his mate smiles at him, tilts his head, and asks if he wants to watch a movie.

Derek feels caught, like a deer in the headlights. He doesn't trust his mouth, so he merely nods.

“What kind of movies do you show an amnesiac?”

Derek blinks.

“Wow, tough crowd. No, but seriously. This you is nice and cooks, so I can't go on what I'm used to. What's your cup of tea, dude? Action, comedy, drama?”

Derek pretends to mull the choices over in his head. “Whatever you want would be fine with me,” he eventually shrugs.

Stiles whines. “You can't say stuff like that, man. Because when you do, it's gonna get you superheros and comic book movies.”

Letting a small smile curl his lips, Derek tilts his head. “Just find me something better than Batman and Robin and I’ll be fine.”

Stiles exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. “I want to be upset with your for insulting Batman, but that movie was terrible, so I’m going to let it slide this time. Come on.”

In the living room, Stiles pushes open a set of shutters that opens to reveal a large TV. Derek plops down on the couch while Stiles spends a few moments looking over the movie collection. He apparently finds one he likes because he pops it in and settles on the couch once the menu pops up.

“Guardians of the Galaxy?”

“Yeah, dude. It’s awesome. Spaceships. The main guy’s great, but I’ve always been a fan of-”

“Rocket?”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “You know who Rocket Racoon is?”

Derek shrugs. “He’s my favorite.”

“I knew it!” He yells. “I knew you were an in-the-closet comic book nerd!” Stiles does this weird wiggle motion, then settles back against the couch and hits play on the remote. “You’re in for a treat.”

The music kicks up and Derek is already hooked, but only partly by the movie. There’s still space between his and Stiles’ bodies on the couch, but the scent of his mate fills his nose, and he can feel Stiles’ warmth.

When Quill places the headphones of his walkman on Gamora so she can hear his music, Stiles fidgets a bit, then stands. Derek’s about to ask him what’s wrong, but Stiles calls over his shoulder that he needs snacks, and disappears into the kitchen.

He brings back popcorn and ziplock baggies full of candy, but it’s only after the scene ends and Peter fails to make a move on Gamora. Half of Derek is fairly sure the scene was making Stiles uncomfortable, given what transpired between them that morning. The other half is absolutely positive.

If it’s one thing Derek learns throughout the movie is that his mate likes to talk and move. He’s hardly ever still, which doesn’t bother Derek at all; he likes the sound of Stiles’ voice, like his laugh even more, and his wiggling eventually brings them closer together so that their knees and elbows bump against one another every now and then.

Stiles throws up a kernel of popcorn and catches it in his mouth.

Derek laughs, and when Stiles turns to look at him, he throws two pieces up and catches them in succession.

Stiles snorts, tosses up three pieces, and fails to catch even one.

This sends Derek into near hysterics. “Were those first few just pure luck?”

His mate pouts. “You can’t prove it!”

Derek laughs harder.

Aghast, Stiles throws an entire handful of popcorn at Derek. By the time Derek recovers, Stiles is halfway across the room, this time lobing a licorice whip at him. Derek easily dodges it, and counterattacks with a handful of Skittles. Stiles is laughing so hard his cheeks are high and rosy, and Derek can’t help but the surge of elation he feels. He’s so gone on Stiles already.

He manages to back Stiles into a corner of the room, and he stalks closer as repeated handful after handful of popcorn are thrown at him. Stiles is laughing hysterically now, tears welling in the corner of his eyes as he attempts to keep Derek away with his delicious, buttery snack.

And just when Derek thinks he has him, Stiles surprises him by dumping the entire bow right over the top of his head.

They’re both laughing now, red faced and gasping for air. Stiles reaches a hand out and picks up a stray piece of popcorn and tosses it into his mouth. Derek shakes his head and they both are showered in kernels. Stiles reaches out for another stray piece on Derek’s shoulder, but he’s stilled by Derek’s fingers wrapping around his wrist. He pulls Stiles’ hand toward his mouth and takes the popcorn from his fingers.

They’re still laughing, but they slow to catch their breath.

Derek reaches up and presses a kernel to Stiles’ lips, who takes it with a chuckle, but stills completely when Derek’s finger grazes his lips.

It’s not funny any longer, it’s not a game. Derek watches as Stiles’ pupils blow out just the slightest. He can hear the way Stiles’ heart kicks up, beats faster in the confines of his chest.

But Derek thinks of the picture he has - the  _ other Derek _ has in the drawer in his night stand, and he bridges the gap between them with his lips and kisses Stiles square on the mouth.

Derek pulls back, putting just enough room in between the two of them so he can catch his breath, but Stiles surprises him yet again and pushes toward him, catches his lips again, the most gentle press of a kiss, soft and chaste and Derek is  _ lost. _

The hand Derek has on Stiles’ chin moves to cup the back of his neck, and Derek’s other hand coasts down to rest on Stiles’ hip, his thumb pressing to the skin that peeks out between his jeans and tshirt.

Stiles is  _ handsy _ , and Derek  _ loves  _ it. Stiles’ hands coast up his arm, thumbs stroking his biceps before one of them wraps around his neck to bringing them closer still.

And then Derek hears the sound of the front door being opened, and Stiles pulls back, anxiety souring his wonderful smell. So Derek does something that every instinct he has fights him on; he drops his hands and lets Stiles go.

Stiles’ eyebrows creep up his forehead, but all Derek levels him with is an even, gentle smile. A corner of Stiles’ mouth turns up before he starts toward the front door.

“Are those my girls?” he calls, throwing his arms open wide as he enters the foyer.

Derek follows, curious.

A tall, beautiful brunette closes the door behind her and envelops Stiles in a hug.

“How was your trip? What did you bring me back?”

The girl laughs. “It wasn’t a vacation, Stiles.”

“So you didn’t bring me back anything?”

Lydia rolls her eyes as she hangs up her keys and toes off her shoes.

“You can’t keep it - they want it back - but they lent me a book I think you’ll like.” The girl pulls an old, leather-bound tome from her bag, and Stiles’ eyes widen.

He thumbs through a few pages after she hands it to him, whistling. “It’s old.”

“Fourteen generations.”

It’s then that the girl turns to look at Derek. Her smile widens, but takes on a sad quality. “Lydia filled me in about the memory loss on the way over. I’m sorry, Derek. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”

Derek chuckles. “How about your name?”

“Oh!” The girl laughs. “Allison. Allison Argent.”

Derek has his hand around her throat and her back against the wall in a heartbeat.

In another, there’s someone slamming into his side.

It’s Scott of all people, with Boyd, Erica, and Isaac close behind. They all try to pin him while he watches Stiles usher Allison, who is clutching her throat, up the stairs.

Derek roars. How can he and his pack possibly let the child of a hunter into their house? He snarls and swipes, scratches and kicks, and eventually gets enough of an opening to follow Stiles and Allison up the stairs.

He watches as Stiles disappears behind the door frame, but when he reaches the threshold, he’s stopped, dead in his tracks. It takes him a moment to realize what it is, but he knows it can’t be anything other than a barrier of mountain ash.

“Stiles,” Derek snarls.

Stiles’ brave face is betrayed by the thundering staccato of his heart, but even still he faces Derek. “You need to calm down. Now.”

“Do you know who she is? Who her parents are?”

“Derek, you need to calm down.”

“You let her in this house?  _ I  _ let her into my house, into my pack?”

Scott and the others rush up the stairs, but all stop dead when Derek’s eyes flash Alpha red and he roars.

“You need to calm down.”

Derek snarls at him so viciously, Stiles flinches back.

It drains a huge portion of Derek’s anger, seeing his mate flinch away from him. He slams his eyes shut, draws his fangs back, pulls his claws in. He takes a deep breath, then another, and another.

“Derek?”

Derek opens his eyes at how gentle Stiles’ voice is when he calls his name. He sighs then hangs his head.

“I-”

“It's okay,” Stiles assures him. “Can you go to my room? I'll be there in just a sec. I wanna make sure Allison is alright.”

A flash of anger runs through him at the mention of the hunter's name, but he tramps it down. Derek nods, then forces one foot after another until he's down the hallway and safely inside Stiles’ room. He closes the door, pauses a minute, and runs his fingers through his hair just to force his hands to unclench from fists.

After a few minutes, Stiles enters, shuts the door behind him, and sits down on his bed.

Derek paces. He can't help it; he feels caged in.

Stiles meets his gaze and pointedly pats the empty space next to him on the bed.

For lack of a better idea, Derek sits.

It takes a moment for Stiles to start, which doesn't ease Derek in the slightest. “Yes, Allison is an Argent. Yes, she's a hunter. No, she's not a double agent or a spy or going to hurt any of us.”

“Why? How?”

Rubbing his eyes and sighing, Stiles purses his lips before he speaks, like he's truly trying to keep his words reigned in. “It's complicated.”

Derek grinds his teeth so hard his jaw hurts.

It takes a while, but Stiles tells him of how Scott was bitten by a rogue wolf when they were in high school, of how Allison hadn’t been brought into the world of hunters until she didn’t really have a choice, of how her mom had died, and a cacophony of other things that had led them to this point. The problem, however, was that Derek could tell Stiles was omitting parts of the story, but couldn’t interject. Deaton had warned him against flooding his memories all at once.

“I just...  _ hunters _ . I’m on familiar terms with  _ hunters. _ ”

Stiles scratches the back of his head. “Several, uh, clans? Families? I’m not really sure what the plural is. Anyway. That’s what Allison was doing; she was over on the east coast, meeting with some of the hunters her family is good friends with, who are more of the accepting type. We’ve got several treaties going on, though sometimes that’s a little of a loose term; it’s more of a ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,’ with a clause of no one stabs anyone in the back while you’re scratching.”

Derek rubs his face with the heels of his hands.

“You actually play poker with Chris and my dad every few weeks.”

“Your dad?” Derek asks, incredulously.

Stiles shrugs, then pauses. “Oh, yeah. My dad’s the sheriff. He knows about all of this crazy stuff.”

A quiet stretches between them for a long while. Derek’s thoughts are a mess, but everything settles when Stiles puts a warm hand on his knee. “I know this is all crazy. Well, crazier than usual. But we’ll get through this, you’ll see. We always do.”

Derek looks up at his mate, his heart tight. “Tell me how we met.”

Stiles’ face goes blank for a moment, and Derek grows worried. “In the woods, on your property. Scott and I were looking for the inhaler he dropped the night before.”

Face scrunching, Derek scoffs. “That’s it?”

Stiles shrugs, taking his hand away. “You told us to get lost.”

Derek growls, low and deep. The  _ other _ him is a complete idiot. “Why did I let you go? We’ve known each other for  _ years _ ; why aren't you  _ mine _ ?”

Stiles’ face turns the prettiest shade of pink as he tries to look nonplussed. “I don't know what you want me to say. You never made me think there was a chance.”

Feeling bold, Derek leans in, presses his nose to the warm junction of Stiles’ ear and jaw. “You feel it too, don't you? The pull.”

Stiles stills, but Derek can feel the quickening of his mate's heart where their skin meets.

“Please don't.”

Derek pulls away like he's been struck.

Stiles won't meet his eyes, his gaze appearing glazed and far-away. “When the real you comes back, everything will go back to the way it was. In fact, I expect you'll be mad at me for the kiss earlier.”

“ _ I am the real me, _ ” Derek all but shouts, surging forward and capturing Stiles’ lips in a fierce kiss.

Stiles goes stock-still under him, freezes completely, and Derek wants to  _ scream, _ wants to run and hide. But then Stiles is kissing him back, and the floodgates open. Derek's hands roam over the body of his mate, all lean muscle and sinew, tiny moles dancing under his fingertips. He trails his fingers through chocolate brown trusses, and Stiles gasps when Derek licks at the seam of his lips, shuddering as their tongues caress.

Derek can't help it, it's instinctual, this desire to be close to his mate, closer still. He cups Stiles’ ass and hefts him up, their kiss never breaking as Stiles is moved to straddle Derek's lap. Stiles’ long fingers card through his hair as he pants into Derek's mouth, breath catching when Derek presses his hands under his mate's shirt, coasting over the skin of his back.

Stiles hips make an aborted attempt at grinding down on Derek's, and chills run down his spine when he realizes that Stiles is hard for him. He grinds up, eliciting a moan from the boy, who breaks their kiss when his head is thrown back.

Derek growls and attacks the expanse of flesh that's been presented to him, delighted at his mate's willing submission. Stiles bucks in his lap when Derek presses blunt teeth to warm skin, fists his hair, keens his name, and Derek is  _ lost, gone _ in the heady scent and taste and feel of his mate.

But then broad palms on his pectorals push, hard, and Stiles pushes away, rises to his feet looking less like he's been kissed and more like he's been punched. It makes Derek's stomach clench.

He watches as Stiles’ eyes dart around the room, his hands wringing with anxiety. “I can't.”

“But you want to,” Derek soothes, standing up and taking a step forward.

“We can't,” Stiles trembles, taking a step back, his hand scrabbling for the door knob.

“We can.”

“You'll never forgive me if we do.”

And with that, Stiles is out the door.

Derek doesn't know how long he stands there, in the wake of Stiles’ escape. He feels numb, heavy, having had his mate so close only for him to flee. He curses his  _ other _ self, scrubs his face with his hands, feeling lost and alone. He sits down.

It's a long time before someone comes to see him. It's Scott, who looks sad when he enters the room, asking Derek to come down for dinner. Their meal is a quiet affair, all tension and nervous glances between his betas, after they inform him Stiles took Allison to stay with their respective families.

After they finish, Derek retreats to his room. The window in his room is fixed, but he can't stand the smell, so he changes his clothes and readies himself to go curl up in the bed of his mate where it's warm and feels like home. It's when he's on his way out when he notices it, a phone on top of the dresser. It's his room, so it must be his. When he touches the button on the side and the screen lights up, his background picture makes his lips curl up in a small smile; it's his pack, his new one, asleep on the floor of the living room, huddled together, a tangle of limbs and sleeping faces. And there he is in the back, leaning against the couch, arms folded, with none other than Stiles asleep at his side, head resting on Derek's shoulder.

He flips through the phone, curious. His other self doesn't take many pictures, but the ones he does seem meaningful in some way; his new pack surrounding the large table in the dining room, a stretch of board games in front of them, a few of them in line at an amusement park, Stiles and Scott in costume for what must have been Halloween. There are shots of nature, mostly, but they are still foreign to Derek in a way that is unsettling.

He flicks through his contact list next, and the fact that the only family names he has on the list are Cora and Peter has his heart stuttering in his chest.

He's back downstairs in a flash, holding out the phone to the others. “Why aren't my parents in my phone?”

No one says anything. No one even breathes.

“My sister, Laura? My mom? What happened to them?”

Scott steps forward. “I'm sorry.”

“Where. Are. They.” Derek can feel his fangs push out.

“There was a fire.”

He's on his knees with his head in his hands, the sharp pain at the base of his skull near excruciating. He remembers. Not much, not everything, but he remembers enough to realize it was somehow his fault.

Derek breaks. Tears stream down his face as he trembles. His pack, his family, gone because of him.

Suddenly, there are warm arms around him, warm bodies pressing against him, and it's not okay, nothing is okay, but it feels like it  _ might _ be, someday, somehow.

Erica sniffles against his neck, clinging tight. Scott and Boyd are warm and solid, and Isaac presses his forehead to the back of Derek's neck.

Morning doesn't come for ages.

But it does, like it always has and always will. 

Derek feels drained, feels weak, but somehow he feels alright. Everyone helps make breakfast, and the mood lightens.

Stiles comes back around noon, with Lydia and Deaton close behind. Deaton's wearing a calm smile. “Good news,” he tells Derek. “I found a counter spell. Most of the ingredients are easy to find, but we had to send out for a few others. They'll be here in the morning.”

“I remembered some things,” Derek offers, and Stiles looks up at him, curious but cautious.

“Oh?” Deaton prods.

“My family. The fire. Not everything, but enough to know it was my fault.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Stiles says taking a step toward him. “It wasn't your fault,” he repeats, softer this time.

Deaton stays for dinner. The food is good, but Derek doesn't taste much; he's too focused on the fact that Stiles won't look at him.

Deaton leaves after their meal, promising to come back once he has the ingredients for the spell.

Stiles leaves, too, telling them he'll be back with Deaton in the morning.

Scott suggests they watch a movie, but Derek declines politely and retires early for the night.

It's eleven at night when he rises from his bed, unable to sleep. His head hurts, so he tries his luck rummaging through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. As luck would have it, he finds nothing that would help.

At a loss for what to do, Derek begins down the hall toward his bedroom again, but pauses outside of Stiles’ door. The boy isn't home - Derek had watched him leave after dinner - and he wasn't a wolf, so there was no way Stiles would know if Derek sat in his bedroom for a little bit, right? Just a few minutes, just enough to clear up is headache. That all.

That's not all.

Derek rolls around in Stiles’ bed, his wolf gloating over the prospect of him finally smelling like his mate, mixing their scents together until they mingle completely, become something new and entirely their own.

He takes off his shirt so Stiles’ scent will permeate his skin, too, and loses his pants soon after.

God, just the  _ smell _ of his boy is enough to get Derek hard, and he can't help it, he  _ has _ to touch himself, find release. He strips his cock, head thrown back, drowning in the scent of his mate, wishing desperately that Stiles was actually there with him-

And that's when the door shuts and the light flickers on. Stiles stands there with the door to his back, his eyes wide and fixated on Derek's bare cock. His tongue darts out, past his pink lips, and makes Derek's blood  _ sing. _

Derek lets go of his cock, moves so he's sitting up, slinging his legs over the side of the bed. The entire time, he keeps his eyes on Stiles, keeps his hearing tuned to the beat of his mate's heart.

“Stiles,” Derek finally growls, causing the boy's eyes to dart up and meet his own.

Stiles swallows, looking  _ so much _ like prey.

“Stiles, come here.” Derek's voice is raw, scrapes out of his throat like tires on gravel, but it works; the need in his words propelling Stiles into motion.

It's slow, like a dance. Stiles creeps toward him, cautious but curious, his steps uneven and small. But he moves, moves toward him, and it makes the warmth in Derek's stomach  _ blaze. _

They are within touching distance of one another, close enough in their proximity for Derek to see the way Stiles’ pulse dances. But he can't pounce, can't  _ take _ just because it's what he wants. He  _ has _ to be what  _ Stiles wants _ .

Stiles’ hand reaches out, tentatively, his fingertips grazing the stubble of Derek's cheeks, and the skin beneath is set alight. A thumb traces Derek's lower lip, and the were has to bite his tongue hard enough it bleeds to keep from sucking the digit into his mouth.  Stiles pulls in a sharp breath, as if he's suppressing a shudder, and a growl wells out of Derek from deep within. Derek watches as Stiles’ pupils blow at the sound, his blood singing in his ears.

His hand moves to cup his jaw, then trails down Derek's chin, two fingers lingering just for a moment on his pulse point. Derek, unabashed in his need, tilts his head back and bares his throat for his mate.

Stiles’ mouth falls open, and Derek's wolf practically purrs at the reaction; he knows his mate is smart, would know what it means for an alpha to bare his neck to his mate.

It's love and devotion, trust beyond measure.

Stiles’ hand pauses above his heart, pauses.

“Derek?”

_ God, _ does Derek love it when his mate says his name. It's like a drug, heavy in his heart but light in his veins. He pushes his hands up, unable to still them any longer. His fingers skim up Stiles’ spine, eliciting a soft gasp, and Derek growls, shudders.

Stiles’ faces closes then, and Derek aches, worried that his mate will pull away, will leave him aching and empty.

But then Stiles surges forward and kisses him, and the world around d Derek falls away, the entirety of his universe focusing in on the firm press of soft lips on his own, the feeling of his mate in the circle of his arms. A million stars are burning to life and flickering out, but the press of Stiles’ lips is the entire expanse of his focus; nothing else could  _ possibly _ matter.

He pushes forward, cupping Stiles’ ass in his hands, and brings the boy to straddle his lap.

Stiles shudders, lets slip a little breathless gasp as Derek presses his cock up against the V of Stiles’ legs. He can smell desire rolling off Stiles in  _ tidal waves _ , his heart hammering away behind the locked cage of his ribs.

Derek pulls away from their kiss, pushing Stiles’ shirt up and off, desperate to run his hands across the mole-dotted skin beneath. When his chest is laid bare in front of Derek, Stiles falters, his shoulders drawing in, tight, like he's ashamed.

“Don't hide,” Derek begs, his mouth descending to kiss at Stiles’ neck. “You're so beautiful.”

Stiles’ hands press lightly to the tops of Derek's shoulders. He feels it as Stiles takes a breath, like he's going to argue.

But Derek won't have it, won't listen, so he pushes Stiles up enough so he can attach his mouth to one of the dusky pink nipples in front of him.

Stiles gasps and jerks a little, his hands flying up to latch onto Derek's hair.

Satisfied with the delicious little noises falling from Stiles’ pink lips, Derek moves to give his attention to the other nipple, loving the taste of Stiles’ skin.

They way they move is like a conversation; when Stiles keens, Derek growls; when Derek nips, Stiles gasps; when Stiles moans, so too does Derek. They dance like this, like gravity is keeping them together, a force of the universe no one can deny.

Derek reaches down between them, fumbling at the zipper of Stiles’ jeans, desperate to touch, to feel. There's no finesse as he pushes a hand past the elastic of Stiles’ boxers, wanting nothing more than the feeling of Stiles in his hand.

Stiles shouts something incomprehensible when Derek wraps his thick fingers around the straining cock of his mate, digging his fingers into the skin surrounding the tattoo on Derek's back, his eyes slamming shut, breath hot against Derek's ear. Derek shifts slightly, can't help it, the scent of arousal pouring off Stiles, but he's delicate with his touches now, careful of his claws, his fangs. It takes him a moment to regain control.

Derek knows what lies in the drawer to his right. He could smell the tube of lube the moment he  sat on Stiles’ bed. He reaches for it. It's a little difficult digging through a bedside drawer while continually raining kiss upon kiss onto Stiles lips and neck, but he manages. He flicks the tube open with his thumb, curling his wrist in a way that allows him to pour a good measure on his hand, coating his fingers.

“ _ Proszę _ ,”  Stiles shouts again as Derek presses the tip of a digit into him, and it dawns on the were that it's  _ another language _ . Derek has  _ broken the boy, _ and he growls,  _ snarls, _ as pride wells up in him. He can give his mate so much pleasure just through touch that he forgets how to  _ speak English _ . But it's not enough. Derek won't be satisfied until the only word his mate knows, can speak, is Derek's name.

A second finger is pushed inside, and now Stiles is  _ shaking _ . Derek's name stutters out of his mouth in fragments, punctuated by hisses and keens.

Derek presses his fangs to the smooth, warm skin of Stiles’ throat and the boy seizes, stills, cries Derek's name as he comes all over Derek's fingers.

It's like music, the sounds Stiles makes as he falls apart for Derek. But once isn't enough, will never be enough so long as Derek still pulls breath, so he flips them over, Stiles’ pliant body pressed against the mattress as Derek pulls the remainder of his mate's clothes off. Once Stiles is divested of his garments, Derek squeezes more lube onto his fingers and gets back at it, two fingers easing past Stiles’ rim, eliciting a strangled gasp when his digits press into the small bundle of nerves inside.

He covers Stiles’ body with his own, reveling in how they fit together like lock and key,  _ like they were made for each other _ . Derek presses against Stiles’ prostate again, and the boy practically  _ screams. _ Derek chases the sound with his tongue, sweeping it into Stiles’ mouth like it's not a noise but honey, dripping, sticky-sweet.

“Derek,” Stiles cries when another digit is pressed into him. His blunt human fingernails scratch at Derek's shoulders and back, scrabbling for purchase, desperate for a hand hold, for purchase, for anything.

Derek quiets him with a kiss, easing the stretch of his fingers just the slightest. “You're so perfect, Stiles,” he growls.

Stiles’ head shakes from side to side, as if refuting Derek's words, but the were won't have an argument, not over this. He pulls his fingers out, sicks up his cock, and moves to his knees, maneuvering Stiles so the boy's legs encircle his waist.

Derek presses the tip of his fat cock against his mate's puffy, pink rim and watches, entranced, as he pushes. Stiles’ walls clamp around him, tight and so,  _ so hot _ . Derek knows his face must have shifted, because Stiles grows wide, even wider, mouth falling open as he gazes up at Derek with his whiskey-colored eyes.

When he bottoms out, they both fall silent.

Stiles pants, quick little breaths that match the racing of his heart. “Derek,” he gasps. “ _ Derek.” _

_ “ _ I'm right here, baby. I've got you. Gonna fill you up so good, you'll see.”

Stiles’ back arches, eyes rolling to the back of his head as Derek begins to move. He's slow at first, knows he has to be considering the fragility of his human mate, but  _ God, _ the sweet clench of Stiles’ body around his cock is the most beautiful thing he's ever experienced, could ever hope to know.

Past Stiles’ lips falls a litany of a single word; Derek's name. It's like a prayer, soft and pleading, astoundingly beautiful.

The word changes to a scream when Derek shifts and pulls one of Stiles’ legs up to rest on his shoulder, folding Stiles nearly in two, the new angle perfect in the way it seems to hit Stiles’ sweet spot every time.

Derek presses his face to the sweat-soaked skin of Stiles’ shoulder, feeling his orgasm rushing toward him. He sucks in great gulps of air, desperate to bring Stiles to release again before him. He slows, regains control of his body.

Beneath him, Stiles keens. Derek pulls back, wanting to  _ watch _ his mate come apart again, but stutters to a stop when he realizes Stiles is  _ crying. _

“Baby?” He cups Stiles’ face with his hand, palm smoothing over cheek. “What's wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Stiles bites his lips, closes his eyes, shakes his head. Tears are streaming down the sides of his face, disappearing into his hairline.

“Stiles? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

When Stiles opens his mouth, a choked sob escapes. “It won't last.”

Derek nuzzles Stiles’ nose with his own. “Open your eyes. Open your eyes for me, baby.”

Stiles hesitates so long Derek is worried he won't, but eventually his eyes slowly open.

“You're my mate, Stiles.  _ My mate _ . I will never not want you. I will never leave you.” Derek punctuates his sentence with a kiss, sealing it with a promise. “I swear. I will love you as long as I am breathing.”

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck, pulls him down into a biting kiss. When he pulls back, Derek's breath hitches at the look of sadness in Stiles’ eyes. “I love you,” he whispers.

Derek kisses him again and again. His mate  _ loves him. _ Those three simple words make the blood in his body echo in his ears, his heart a frantic drumbeat in his sternum. Stiles loves him,  _ him,  _ the beat of his heart nothing but steady as the words had slip past his rosy, kiss-swollen lips.

Stiles rolls his hips, a sweet plea on his tongue. Derek wastes no time, pushes back into him, fucks his mate into the mattress until Stiles’ body draws tight like a bow, arching, neck bared. Derek sinks his teeth into the soft flesh, hard, but paying mind not to break the skin. Stiles stills, then comes with a shout, eyes squeezed shut, tears wetting the corners of his eyes.

Derek follows after, losing himself in the sweet-hot clench of his mate. He roars Stiles’ name, the word pushed out his throat raw, like smoke and fire.

It's a good long while before he comes back to himself, Stiles pinned under him, still panting and looking half drunk, thoroughly fucked out.

Derek steals a sweet kiss, then leans up on his knees. He takes his shirt and cleans Stiles’ come off his abs, then pulls on a pair of sweatpants. He quietly pads down the hall to the bathroom where he lets the faucet run until the water is warm, then he sets a washcloth.

When he catches his reflection in the mirror, he pauses. His hair is a mess, the tight clutch of Stiles’ hands had seen to that. There are scratches on his shoulders, small ones, already nearly healed. His lips are swollen, pink and puffy, and he smiles to himself.

He wrings out the washcloth and brings it with him back to the room. His mate is still sprawled upon the bedclothes, naked, sweaty, and flushed. His eyes are half closed, and he looks like he's on his way to sleep.

Derek is tender in his ministrations. He wipes up the come on Stiles’ stomach first, careful and gentle. He slips one hand under the bend of Stiles’ knee, hoists the leg partially up so he can wash away his own come as it leaks out of Stiles puffy pink hole.

Stiles hisses, regardless of how gentle Derek is. Derek is remorseful that he's the cause of his mate’s discomfort, but as Stiles shudders as Derek swipes at his leaking hole again, he can't help his fangs dropping. His instincts war within him; his wolf wants to push his come back into his mate, finger him until he's loose and sloppy all over again, then fill him up once more. His wolf wants to see Stiles sex-drunk and dripping his come every moment he's awake. But Derek listens to Stiles’ heart as it slows, as he falls further into the clutches of sleep, and his wolf growls but eases.

Derek tosses the used up cloth into the hamper across the room, then pulls up the covers of Stiles’ bed, wraps the both of them up as he slots himself in behind Stiles, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

His family is gone. His mom and dad are dead.

But when Derek holds Stiles like this, the beats of their heart an even, matching rhythm, he  _ knows _ everything will turn out alright.

In the morning, when he wakes up, the bed is empty and cold.

Deaton shows up an hour later, brews a particularly disgusting-smelling tea, and Derek just sits there. He’s tried calling Stiles’ cell three times with his own. It’s still too early in the morning for the others to be awake, and it’s not like it matters; Derek’s gone numb. He’s completely without feeling, his thoughts empty and his heart even more so.

“Something on your mind?”

“If I drink this, and go back to the man I was, will Stiles still be my mate?”

Deaton sighs, smiles sadly. “I don't know. If he was your mate before, you’ve opened the door. If not, the door will close. Weres mate for life, but don't always know their mates the moment they meet. Sometimes they slot together like the gears of a clock, over time, while sometimes they crash together like meteors. There's no wrong way to find your mate, Derek. If you love Stiles now, even if you didn't before, perhaps that love will carry over when you regain your memories.”

“And if it doesn't?” His throat clicks as he swallows.

“Then you own mister Stilinski an apology.”

Derek takes the tea. The cup warms his hands. He wants to know -  _ has to know  _ if Stiles has always been his mate. It doesn’t matter how or what the  _ other _ Derek feels; this Dere, right here, right now, knows that Stiles is it for him, knows that even if he drinks the tea, there’s no way he’ll love his mate any less.

Stiles’ heart  _ hadn’t _ stuttered when he’d told Derek he loved him. Derek  _ knows _ Stiles was telling the truth. But there’s something keeping Stiles away, keeping him fearful of the relationship that should be between them, and Derek knows that it’s  _ him _ .  
  
Derek drinks the tea, hoping the other Derek will do right by Stiles.


	3. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV change from Derek to Stiles for the last chapter.

Stiles is still in bed when he hears his dad’s police cruiser pull out of the driveway.

It’s slightly strange sleeping in his old room, considering how little he's left behind. Everything else that he owns is at the pack house - at _Derek’s house_ \- and Stiles can’t go back. He _can’t._ He’d told Derek - the Derek that doesn’t remember Stiles is just an annoying little shit, a squishy little human that’s only value to the pack is through research and sarcasm and the fixing of their computers - that he _loved him_.

And what’s worse?

Derek told him he loved him back.

Except, it wasn’t _really_ Derek, was it?

So it meant nothing.

The sweet touches had meant nothing.

The lingering looks had meant nothing.

The look in Derek’s eyes, the promises falling out of him _had meant nothing._

Stiles doesn’t move when he hears the window open. Instead, he sighs, wipes the tears from his face. “Scott, I really don’t want to do this right now. Just, gimme, like, a few days, alright? I’ll-”

“ _Stiles”_ The voice is raw, wrecked, and very much _not_ Scott’s.

Stiles flips around, his heart suddenly in his throat. Derek Hale stands in his room, a dark silhouette against the light of the moon.

 _Fuck._ Stiles struggles to sit, up, looking everywhere but Derek. He runs his hands through his hair, bites his lips. He feels like he does when he forgets to take his Adderall, jittery and unfocused.

“I’ll come get my stuff in the morning, alright?”

Derek shifts - Stiles can hear the leather of his jacket creak as he crosses his arms. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re here to kick me out of the pack, aren’t you?”

Stiles suddenly finds himself face to face with Derek, scorching red eyes illuminating his sharp, stubbled cheek bones. “I’m not here to kick you out of the pack, Stiles.”

Swallowing, Stiles shifts back a little. “You’re not?”

Derek steps back, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I’m here to apologize.”

And that makes Stiles laugh, though it sounds a little too high-pitched, borderline hysterical. “I’m pretty sure I should be the one apologizing here, dude. I’m the one that took advantage of you when you lost your memories.”

Derek sighs. “I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize that you were my mate sooner.”

Stiles is shocked into silence. He wants to ask Derek what on God’s green earth he’s talking about, but the word don’t form right in his head, and nothing but a strained whine is pushed from him.

Derek, apparently, gets the message because he continues to talk. “I thought at first that I hated you, because you were _always_ on my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about you; your voice, your face, your hands. I thought it was because I didn’t trust you. But after you saved my life in the pool, I knew I could trust you, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise. It wasn’t until you and the rest of the pack moved in that I started to realize there was even more to it than a platonic friendship. It didn’t feel right unless you smelled like me, and my wolf’s hackles were always up around you. If we were in the same room, I felt like I had to be next to you. So I tried to push you away. That’s why I was in the forest that night, when the witch got me. I was trying to run away, Stiles, because I realized that I have feelings for you.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Stiles blurts, apologetically.

Derek snarls. “That I break everything I care about, that everyone I love either dies, leaves, or betrays me.”

“We moved into the house we helped you build, you gigantic, gaping _asshole_!” Stiles is on his feet now, his pointer finger digging into the flesh above Derek’s heart. “I trust you enough that when I was scared for my dad, I knew you’d agree to help me tell him about werewolves and the supernatural and all the shit we deal with! I care for you enough that I put my neck on the line every time I go and meet with another hunter or pack and offer up the idea of a truce! I love you enough that when I thought I had a chance with you, I couldn’t fucking stop myself from taking what I wanted!”

“I meant what I said,” Derek whispers, the tips of their noses touching. “I didn’t realize until my mind was clear of all of my other problems and worries. I love you. But I'm scared, Stiles. I'm so scared of losing you.”

“You’re a coward, Derek Hale. You're so scared of being happy that you build yourself up for the sad before it's even started, even if it never comes. You're so afraid of the bad that you won't let yourself have the good.”

The room is quiet.

Stiles sighs. “But I'm a coward, too. I was so afraid of losing _any_ part of you that I never told you how I felt, either.”

Derek whispers his name.

“But I can't do this anymore, I can't pretend to just be friends when I know what it's like to be loved by you. So, I'll come get my stuff from the house tomorrow and-”

Derek surges forward and crushes their mouths together. He pulls back, snarling. “If you think I'm so scared of losing you that I'm going to let you go, you're an idiot.” He kisses Stiles again, hoists him up, forcing Stiles to wrap his legs around the were’s hips. “I know what you taste like, I know what you look like coming apart in my hands, on my cock. If you think I'm going to ever let anyone else but me see that-”

Stiles kisses him, pulling him in by his pointed ears. “Christ, Derek. You can't say things like that and-”

Derek rolls their hips together, his breath blisteringly hot on the shell of Stiles’ ear as their cocks grind against one another. “I'm going to _ruin you,_ Stiles. I'm going to mark every inch of your body so every wolf, every hunter, every _creature_ on this planet will know who you belong to.”

Stiles moans as his clothes are shredded, breath hitching as his body is pressed into the mattress.

“I'm going to fuck you open, morning, noon, and night.”

“I want you to make me breakfast in the morning,” Stiles grins, knowing he's going to throw Derek off.

But the were keeps going, shucking off his clothes faster than Stiles’ eyes can follow, continuing as if Stiles _isn't_ a cheeky little shit. “I'll make you breakfast in the morning. I'll make you breakfast _every morning_ , because you're _mine, Stiles. You're mine.”_

Stiles laughs, then gasps when two of Derek's fingers push into him. His eyes slam shut as his brain catches up with the rest of him. Where the hell did he even get the lube from? “I want you to be honest with me.”

Derek kisses the inside of a knee, tenderly, eyes bleeding red. “I _honestly_ want to get my cock back into that tight ass of yours so badly it's a triumph that I'm still sane enough to _talk.”_

“Oh, Der,” Stiles coos. “You're so sweet with your words.”

Derek stills until Stiles meets his gaze. Broad shoulders lean up and over, and Derek's body casts a shadow over Stiles’ vision enough that the only thing he can see are red, glowing eyes. Derek crooks his fingers, and Stiles yelps. Above him, Derek growls, mouth opening as canines drop.

“Do you have any idea what do you to me?”

Stiles arches like a bow when Derek twists his fingers again, his neck arching, bared.

Derek kisses the skin there like his lips can put out the fire in Stiles’ veins.

It’s hardly a matter of minutes before Stiles is coming on Derek’s fingers, three pushed up to the last knuckle, Derek’s sharp fangs pressed against the skin over his adam’s apple. He floats back down from his orgasm-high to Derek slicking up his cock, pushing the fat tip of it against Stiles’ hole.

“Stiles _,_ ” Derek’s voice is gravel-rough, sounding like it’s _dragged_ from this throat.

Stiles keens when Derek bottoms out, his eyes clenched shut. “Fuck, Der,” he pants, his dick already trying, valiantly, to get hard again.

But this time, _this time_ , Derek fucks him slowly, the friction of his cock as it’s pushed in and out of Stiles’ body again and again reducing Stiles to choked sobs of his names as he begs Derek to go faster, to fuck him, please, please, _please-_

Feeling desperate, Stiles reaches down, ready to strip his cock since Derek’s hell bent on taking his sweet time.

The were’s reflexes, however, are too fast, and Derek gathers both of Stiles’ wrists in one hand, then moves to pin them above his head.

“Derek,” Stiles is close to sobbing now, the feeling of being so full, of being fucked so _thoroughly_ almost too much. “Derek, please-”

Derek doesn’t listen; he keeps fucking in and out of Stiles’ body slowly, methodically.

"Proszę,” Stiles cries, and Derek’s movements stutter.

“Proszę,” he yells again, desperate. Derek’s eyebrows are suddenly gone, the hair on his face reaching further than it did three words ago. His fangs drop - _really drop_ this time, his lips curling back. He pushes himself forward, buries his face in Stiles’ neck. He lets go of Stiles’ wrists in order to give himself more leverage, moving his hand to grip the headboard.

“God, baby,” Derek growls, fangs sharp against his lips.

“Proszę, mój wilku.” Stiles can hardly breath, can hardly think, the slow drag of Derek’s dick repeatedly pushed in and out of him.

He comes with a sob, his hands fisted in Derek’s hair, fangs pressed into his neck.

Stiles feels boneless afterward, weightless, which is why he’s so pleased when Derek - whom he didn’t even see leave - comes back into the room with a washcloth and cleans him up.

He falls asleep with Derek’s chest to his back, strong arms wrapped tightly around him, soft words of adoration whispered into his ear.

Stiles wakes to the smell of waffles and bacon. He grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polish translation - “proszę, mój wilku" = please, my wolf
> 
> Again, if you'd like, check me out on tumblr as madcapromantic, or my exclusive Sterek blog as towhomthewolfkingbows.


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